


Death Valley

by applepieisworthit



Series: THE DURINS AREN'T AS MAJESTIC AS THEY THINK THEY ARE [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Balin dies, Balin dying, EXTREME SAD, SERIOUSLY THIS IS BALIN'S DEATH SCENE, Sad, Sorrow, dead Balin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 14:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3696437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepieisworthit/pseuds/applepieisworthit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew a year in that it had been a bad idea.</p>
<p>(Balin's death in Khazad-Dum/Moria)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death Valley

**Author's Note:**

  * For [determamfidd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/gifts).



> Another fic present for Determamfidd
> 
> READ THIS LISTENING TO EURIELLE'S SONG OF DURIN ON YOUTUBE

He knew a year in that it had been a bad idea, but he couldn’t face telling the Dwarves that he had brought with him all this way so he stayed tight lipped, suffered through the knowledge that sooner or later it was going to come crashing down around them, and there was nothing he could do about it.

It seemed to get better, for three years there were no orcs, there was almost peace, they started to build a small colony and Balin felt some hope for the possibility that, maybe, one day, Durin’s folk might finally have their ancestral home of Khazad-Dum back.

It was in their fifth year that Balin’s initial thoughts came back to haunt him, it started with quiet rolling drums that sounded like thunder crashing far away from them, and though Óin and Balin exchanged wary glances neither said anything and the uneasy silence carried on.

Over the months the rolling thunder seemed to get closer and closer and Óin and Balin could no longer deny the dread filling their chests whenever they heard the sound and soon they were packing up; moving slowly and carefully to make sure they left nothing behind. 

In the end Balin knew this was their biggest mistake.

When he thought about it later in the halls he could never explain to himself why he left their small grouping to look at Durin’s crown in Kheled-Zaram, why had he ever thought that he would survive? Why had he ever thought that leaving Erebor would be a good idea! They had had a stable and flourishing Dwarrow Kingdom and he’d decided, on a fool’s dream, to ignore the wisdom of Dáin, the King who had fought at Azanulbizar with Balin and tried so many times to remind him of Thrór’s folly. 

How could he have allowed Óin, his cousin to come along, and Ori, poor young Ori, the scribe from their quest who had wormed his way into the Company’s hearts? How would he ever look Dori in the face again? Knowing it was his fault that Dori had lost the little brother he doted on, the light of his life. He’d never know, they had been done for, and there would be no way for Dori to know. Not for sure; he’d be forever wondering what had happened to his nadadith, to the brother he had practically raised from infancy.

But he didn’t know this at the time and had blindly led many of Erebor’s youngest and fittest into a terrible, slow building trap.

He was wandering through the upper halls when he came across the entrance that had haunted him for so many decades after Azanulbizar, the massive doors that led out onto the desolation where so many of his family had died. Also the doors that led towards Kheled-Zaram and Durin’s crown, so Balin ignored the feeling of dread as he strolled down towards the pool and the fabled image. 

He also ignored the prickling feeling of something watching him as he stared upon a sight that few but Durin himself had seen.

It turned into the last thing he ever did.

He didn’t feel it at first, the arrow pierced through his chest from behind, and he stared down at the blood blossoming across his chest in shock. It was when another arrow pierced out from just below the first that Balin started to feel.

It didn’t feel like he thought it would as he slowly fell to his knees, his legs giving out beneath him, the pain was a slow burn spreading out through his limbs and a low pained whimper left him as he fell forward to his hands and knees, his breathing harsh in his ears and the blood pounding in his head as though trying to escape the gaping chest wounds.

The burning was turning to ice in his fingertips and spreading up his limbs to his heart. He lifted one numb hand to his chest to try to stem the flow of blood, but he could feel his life seeping out past his frozen fingers. With each beat of his slowing heart more hot blood soaked through his ripped tunic and out onto his unmoving slightly clenched hand, he knew it was doing nothing but couldn’t stop himself from pressing down hard between the arrows and trying to stem the loss of his life-blood.

The now sluggishly moving blood was cloying and sticky on his hands and running down his arms in rapidly cooling rivulets and collecting beneath him as he heaved stuttered breaths into his tattered lungs through blood stained lips.

His magnificent white beard was stained red and pressed stickily to his rent open chest in random places as his legs slid out from under him and Balin lay face down on the ground.

He could hear the orc who had already shot him twice approaching behind him and he tried to slow the panicked, heavy breathing that rasped in his throat and into his ears.

His last breath was ragged and broken on a slow sob of pain when the orc yanked both arrows out through his back, dragging the arrow heads back through Balin’s broken body.

When Ori went searching for Balin hours later he couldn’t stop himself from collapsing in gut wrenching sobs next to the Dwarf who had mentored him for decades. It took him hours to resurface and when he did it was with a tear-stained and red, blotchy face, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Ori, son of Zhori, carried Balin, son of Fundin, into Khazad-Dum, his arms shaking with Balin’s weight and his legs threatening to give up on him, but he didn’t give up and he didn’t put Balin down and he didn’t stop, not until he reached the ante-chamber off the main hall.

There the remaining Dwarves of Khazad-Dum mourned their leader, they buried him in the stone as all proper Dwarves and sung an ancient mourning song from ages past and when they were finished no one remained unmoved and Ori and Óin were supporting each other as they stood closest to their companion’s tomb.

Balin in turn watched in horror and disgust as awful fates befell every Dwarf that had accompanied him to that accursed place.

And he never forgave himself.

They had no need to go to Khazad-Dum, and he will forever regret not listening to a King younger, but far wiser than he.

**Author's Note:**

> Previous: Thrain  
> Next: Dain Ironfoot


End file.
